


In Cold Martinis

by Evilawyer



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Real people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-17
Updated: 2009-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilawyer/pseuds/Evilawyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some parties you can't miss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Cold Martinis

The TARDIS landed with its customary “whoosh” in the middle of the posh living room of a fancy New York apartment.

Rose stepped out of the TARDIS and glanced around. “This is New York, right,” she asked as she looked behind her into its interior. “I mean the proper New York? Not that New New York place again?”

“If you ask me, he doesn't know where we are,” Mickey sullenly complained as he exited the TARDIS. “He never does.”

The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS and took in his surroundings. “Oi! I know where we are! We're in New York. Just like I promised you, Rose. At a party. A big society party.” The Doctor snagged an hors d'oeuvre from the tray of a passing server. “With nibbles.”

Rose began looking around. “Think they've got champagne? I'd love a glass of...”

“No, no, no!” A small man rapidly approached the TARDIS from the other side of the room. He waved his arms exaggeratedly; vermouth sloshed out of his martini glass as he did. “Where did this awful contraption come from?” He scurried past the time-traveling trio like they weren't there and stared ferociously at the blue police box that had come out of nowhere to take up space at his social event. “Gore, did you bring this atrocious blue thing here to my party? I know you did.” He spun around and began peering through his thick-framed eyeglasses at the room's many occupants. “You're a spiteful, no-talent hack with the taste and sense of humor of a pissing...” He immediately ceased his shrill kvetching when his eyes lighted on the Doctor. “Well, hello there,” he schmoozed, Southern charm dripping from each word like honey drooling off a honey stick.

Not liking the look the party's host was giving the Doctor, Rose nudged Mickey aside and stepped between the Doctor and the man. “Who's this, then, Doctor” she asked truculently as she crossed her arms over her chest and faced down the host. “Another friend of yours?”

The Doctor gave an embarrassed bark of a laugh; he followed it up with an embarrassed half-smile. “You'll have to excuse my friend here, Mr. Capote.” He took hold of Rose's shoulders and leaned forward over her left shoulder. “Rose, this is Truman Capote.”

“Who?” Rose's expression and tone clearly conveyed that she was not impressed.

The Doctor's smile took on a nervous quality. “Oh, come on now, Rose. You know who Truman Capote is. He's one of the premiere authors of the twentieth century. His works are classics.”

Rose gave the Doctor a challenging, sideways glance. “Yeah? Tell me something of his that I've read, then.”

The author looked down his nose at Rose, which was no mean feat since she was at least two or three inches taller than him. Swinging the left tail of his silk scarf around his neck, he sniffed disdainfully and said, “It knows how to read?”

Rose drew herself to her full height and took a step forward. “Now, wait a minute, you little sh...”

The Doctor pulled Rose away from the author and swung her behind him. “It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Capote. I'm a great admirer of yours. The things you've written...they're brilliant!”

'Yes,” the author drawled as he assessingly looked over Rose and Mickey. “I'm glad to see that at least one of you knows that. Do tell me, if you can narrow it down, which of my works was your favorite.”

A slightly terror-stricken look crossed the Doctor's face. “My favorite?”

“Your favorite,” Mr. Capote confirmed.

An awkward silence ensued, broken only by the Doctor's “hms and “uhs”. After an agonizingly long 30 seconds, Mr. Capote harrumphed and asked “You are familiar with my works, aren't you?”

“ 'course the Doctor knows your stuff,” Rose defended. “He knows everything. Go ahead, Doctor, tell him what you've read of whatever it is he's written.”

“We-ell. There's just so many. There's that one, oh you know which one. It's magnificent.” The Doctor hoped no one would notice he was stalling for time so he could think of the title of even a single short story penned by the illustrious writer. Looking at Mr. Capote's face, he realized that, while hope may spring eternal, it certainly wasn't about to come bouncing in to help him out this time.

Mr. Capote tsked, sighed, and turned sad eyes on the Doctor. “It just goes to show that you can dress up the brain in all kinds of pretty and take it out to the finest nightclubs, but some minds will always stay home and make mud pies,” he lamented.

“'A Christmas Memory',” Mickey said as he shifted his hands inside the pockets of his hoodie. “I liked that one. Kinda sad at the end, but it was a good kind of sad. The kind of sad you don't mind feeling because it comes along with remembering something that made you happy.” Noticing the gobsmacked expressions on Rose's and the Doctor's faces, he angrily told them “I know how to read, and what's more I do. Read.” Looking back to Mr. Capote, who had turned his rapt attention to Mickey, he continued, “I couldn't put 'In Cold Blood' down.”

Mr. Capote looked at Mickey avidly. “Neither could I. For years I couldn't put it down or let it rest. Come over here,” he crooked his finger at Mickey, “and tell me more about what else of mine you've adored.”

“I'm sure he'd love to, Mr. Capote,” the Doctor said as Rose tugged impatiently at his coat sleeve. “It's just that I did promise Rose I'd take her to a few other places.”

“You said you'd take me to see the Rockettes,” Rose chimed in.

“Yes, yes, I did. I'd quite like seeing them myself, actually. Women who can kick that high sound, well, they sound a bit glamorous, really.”

Mr. Capote haughtily glanced at Rose as he told the Doctor “You may not find those Rockette girls so attractive if your idea of a glamorous woman is a plucky tomboy who dresses in dungarees and too-tight men's undershirts.”

“Well, come on then, Mickey,” the Doctor said quickly as he steered Rose back to the TARDIS door and away from Mr. Capote. "We'll just be off.” He took hold of his host's hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you so much, Mr. Capote. We've all had a wonderful time.” He elbowed Rose in her side when she started to tell him to speak for himself.

Mickey failed to move. “I'll just stay here, then. I'm sure you'd like it better if I wasn't around. You can come and pick me up when you two have finished shagging. ”

The Doctor and Rose choked and sputtered in unison.

Mr. Capote shoved a martini glass into Mickey's hand in welcome.“Yes, this young man can stay here and have a wonderful time while you to go off and...” He turned to Mickey. “What was it you said they would be doing?”

“Shagging,” Mickey repeated bitterly.

The Doctor and Rose finally stopped choking and sputtering.

“Mickey,” Rose said, voice squeaky with incredulity. “What're ya sayin'?” The Doctor didn't say anything, just stared at Mickey in open-mouthed shock.

“I'm sayin' I'll stay here while you and he,” he pointed at the Doctor for emphasis, “shag.”

“Shag? Shag? That's one of those 'British-isms', isn't it?” Mr. Capote's delight in the gossip-fodder unfolding before his eyes was plain in his voice. “It sounds vaguely obscene.”

“Yeah. Those two, they're always shagging in the TARDIS,” Mickey confirmed. At Rose's wordless noises of protest, he faced her squarely and asked, “What, d'ya think I can't hear you, Rose?

“Shag,” Mr. Capote let the word dance around his mouth. “No, I take it back. It sounds positively obscene. So obscene, in fact,” he motioned Mickey to come closer, “that you'd better whisper what it means to me.”

Mickey did as he was asked.

A radiant smile spread across the author's face as Mickey pulled back from him. “Really?” His voice rang with all the joy of a ten-year old who just received the very birthday present he'd been hoping for. “What a fabulous meaning for a such a short, hard, Teutonic-sounding word. It's so much more fun when it means that than when it's used to describe that hideous carpet in Andy Warhol's apartment.”

The Doctor finally regained the power of speech. “Here?! You wanna stay here?

“Why not?” Mickey's gaze circled around the room. “Looks like a good party. Might have some fun while I wait.” Mickey's woeful gaze fell on Rose. “Not likely I'll have much fun with the two of you going at it in there,” he motioned his head toward the TARDIS.

“Mickey, we are not shagging,” Rose shrieked, her efforts to keep her voice from climbing into the stratosphere finally collapsing.

“Yeah, well, even if you're not, it's what you wanna do. Not much fun for me thinking about it either way.”

“Mickey,” the Doctor interjected as he stepped forward in front of Rose, “I promise you we aren't shagging. And we don't want to.” Since his back was to Rose, the Doctor missed the look of disappointed disagreement that came over her features. Mickey and Mr. Capote did not.

“Come on, Mickey,” the Doctor continued, the soft sound and cadence of his voice spinning promises into each syllable. “We won't leave you out of things.”

Mr. Capote reached up and laid a protective, almost-possessive hand on Mickey's shoulder. “Don't listen to her. She's just jealous.”

“You two go on, then,” Mickey said as he moved his shoulder out from under the author's hand while simultaneously moving to stand closer to him. “You have a good time. You always do. I'll have a good time here with Mr. Capote at his party. Lots of interesting people here, and I can talk to Mr. Capote about his work.”

“Yes, of course. Let's get cozy over here and I'll tell you all about what I'm working on now. It's a collection of...” Mr. Capote's voice faded as he led Mickey by the arm through the throng of party guests. There was nothing for the Doctor and Rose to do but stand there, nibble-less and champagne-less, and watch them be swallowed up by the crowd.


End file.
